ome one called.

Waring rode to the hotel, dismounted, and strode in casually, pausing at
Stanley's door. The cashier answered his knock.

"I'm off," said Waring. "And I'll need some money."

"All right, Jim. What's up? How much?"

"A couple of hundred. Charge it back to my account. Got it?"

"No. I'll get it at the desk."

"All right. Settle my bill for me to-morrow. Don't stop to dress.
Rustle!"

A belated lounger glanced up in surprise as Waring, booted and spurred,
entered the lobby with a man in pajamas. They talked with the clerk a
moment, shook hands, and Waring strode to the doorway.

"Any word for the Ortez people?" queried Stanley as Waring mounted.

"I left a little notice for Donovan--at Pedro Salazar's house," said
Waring. "Donovan will understand." And Waring was gone.

The lounger accosted Stanley. "What's the row, Stanley?"

"I don't know. Jim Waring is in a hurry--first time since I've known
him. Figure it out yourself."

Back in Pedro Salazar's corral a man lay huddled in a dim corner, his
sightless eyes open to the soft radiance of the Sonora moon. A group of
Mexicans stood about, jabbering. Among them was Ramon Ortego. Ramon
listened and said nothing. Pedro Salazar was dead. No one knew who had
killed him. And only that day he had become one of the police! It would
go hard with the man who did this thing. There were many surmises.
Pedro's brother had been killed by the gringo Waring down in the desert.
As for Pedro, his name had been none too good. They shrugged their
shoulders and crossed themselves.

Ramon slipped from the group and climbed the adobe wall. As he
straightened up on the other side, he saw something gleaming in the
moonlight. He stooped and picked up a little silver crucifix.

CHAPTER V

_The Tang of Life_

Waring rode until dawn, when he picketed Dex in a clump of chaparral and
lay down to rest. He had purposely passed the water-hole, a half-mile
south, after having watered the horse and refilled his canteen.

There was a distinction, even in Sonora, between Pedro Salazar, the
citizen, and Pedro Salazar, of the Sonora police. The rurales might get
busy. Nogales and the Arizona line were still a long ride ahead.

Slowly the desert sun drew overhead and swept the scant shadows from the
brush-walled enclosure. Waring slept. Finally the big buckskin became
restless, circling his picket and lifting his head to peer over the
brush. Long before Waring could hav